


Where There's Smoke (Signals) There's Fire

by Devilc



Category: Smoke Signals
Genre: Character of Color, Chromatic Character, M/M, Native American
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-07
Updated: 2010-01-07
Packaged: 2017-10-05 23:17:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/47110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Devilc/pseuds/Devilc
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Because Thomas Builds-The-Fire was so in love with Victor ....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Where There's Smoke (Signals) There's Fire

**Author's Note:**

> This is based on the movie Smoke Signals, which was adapted by Sherman Alexie from his book _The Lone Ranger and Tonto Fist-Fight In Heaven_. The movie is really _really_ slashy (the book isn't). And, as much as I love Alexie's work, I just couldn't let the movie end where it did.

I had come back from scattering my father's ashes at the falls in Spokane when I saw Thomas Builds-The-Fire come up to the gate. It hadn't been five minutes since I parked my fath  my truck in the drive.

"Victor," he called out in that sing-song way of his, "have you come back from Spokane? Did you scatter your father's ashes at the falls?"

Try as I might, I felt my lips curve a little when I saw him. Thomas Builds-The-Fire used to annoy the fuck out of me with his coke bottle bottom glasses, thrift store three piece suits, pigtail braids, sing-song voice, endless tales, clingy ways, and the fact that he can't play basketball (or any other sport) for shit. But after our trip to Phoenix how could I refuse him? If he were a whiteboy, he would be a pocket protector wearing nerd, but I doubt I'll ever make another friend quite like him.

"Yes, I just came back from Spokane. Come inside, have some of my mother's frybread."

"Oh yes, I'd like that. Your mother makes the best frybread. I remember that time when there was that feast with 100 Indians, and your mother only had 50 pieces of frybread to feed them. Fifty pieces to feed 100 hungry Indians ...."

Not only do I remember that 'feast' (bunch of people pooling their leftovers more like) but Thomas retold the story every time we happened to be in the same room and the subject of frybread came up. And when you consider the fact that it isn't a real meal unless you have some frybread, well, I heard that story a lot. Closing his eyes, and squinching up his face in that way he has, he somehow managed to launch into the story and climb the stairs to the front door. Two weeks ago, I would have groaned. Hell, I wouldn't have been talking to Thomas unless I absolutely had to, which was actually pretty hard to avoid since he seemed to follow me everywhere like a puppy, but now ... it was kind of okay.

So that's how we ended up at my mother's table, eating a little bit of her frybread together. I was nodding my head in the right places, and uh-huhing at the right times, letting the sing-song beat of his voice wash over me, not really paying too much attention when --

\-- he asked me about what my father's ashes had looked like when I opened the can and scattered them.

I suppose he wanted me to describe them floating on the breeze, or what exact color gray, or how the water looked, or something like he would've said.

Now, you have to understand that it seems like I spent most of my life pissed off at my father. He was a fat drunk, slapped my mom around from time to time, and he ran off when I was 12. I didn't see him again until I was 22 and he was just a can of ashes on Suzy Song's kitchen table. Yeah, so he pissed me off a lot, but I also loved him. I think the only way you can ever get that angry at someone is if you love them just as much.

And Thomas ... well, Thomas always worshiped my dad, like a larger than life superhero. My dad had caught little Thomas when one of his parents pitched him, all bundled up, out of the window of their burning house. Even when he found out that my dad had accidentally started the fire that burned the house down and killed both his parents, he still didn't hate my dad. Seems like all I could do growing up was think about all the bad things my dad ever did, while Thomas couldn't stop talking about all the good things.

But, what I'm trying to say is, I mean, I thought I had gotten over everything with my dad. Gotten it all worked through. Made peace. Come to terms. Buried the hatchet. Whatever. I didn't know what to say about my father's ashes. And when Thomas launched for the umpteenth time into the story about the time he walked to Spokane falls, I began to cry.

"Victor, are you okay?"

I wiped my tears with a paper towel and nodded for him to continue, but when he got going again, I sobbed all the harder. Not tears. Sobs. The kind you put your whole body into.

He scooted his chair across the linoleum next to mine and awkwardly put his arms around me and began rocking. I think it was meant to be gentle, but the motion was stiff and jerky, pure Thomas. Anyway, I sobbed all over the gray poly-wool of his stupid suit, leaving a big ass wet patch over the collar bone, and when I stopped sobbing he picked up his story right where he left off.

I so did not want to hear this story right now. I wanted Thomas Builds-The-Fire for once in his life to shut up. Just to shut up for 10 seconds.

Of course he didn't. Just kept on going right to the part where my dad bought him breakfast at Denny's even though it was 2pm. "And I had two eggs, and two sausages ...".

Don't ask me why I kissed him. Every other time in my life when I've wanted him to shut up, I just punched him.

Don't ask me how we got up from the kitchen table, my lips locked to his (because I was holding his head right where I wanted it) and somehow got his stiff, almost spastic body, out of the kitchen, across the front room, down the hall, and into my bedroom without breaking anything or coming up for air. I swear that's how it happened.

What I do remember is ripping that goddamned whiteboy monkey suit off of him, and how the buttons on that stupid button down collar plaid shirt of his went flying (I heard a few of them pinging on the floor and possibly the walls), and that his mouth still tasted faintly like toothpaste even though he had just eaten frybread washed down with Coca-Cola, and that he smelled like clean clothes just off the clothesline (and also a little like the Wizard air freshener his grandmother's house always reeked of) and his chest was smooth and hairless and scrawny ... and warm.

The bed bounced a little when I shoved him on it, and the old wooden frame creaked alarmingly when I pounced on him before he could say a word. A little part of me is still surprised that, for once, Thomas Builds-The-Fire did not have a story to tell, or if he did, he didn't immediately launch in to it. I snatched the glasses off his face and flipped them on to my bureau. I pulled the ties off those stupid girly braids of his and scrubbed my hands through his hair, liberating it -- black and shiny.

And ...

Look, it says a lot when you can't even get all of your clothes off before getting to the main event. Right? Granted, Thomas was naked from the waist up, and somewhere along the line, my top got pushed up, but other than that, only our flys got unbuttoned. Neither of us got our pants, shoes, or socks off. And, I wasn't all that surprised to discover that Thomas wears boxers  white ones with a thin blue pin stripes and diamonds.

I can't even tell you exactly what we did. I remember a few things. I wanted to fuck him through the mattress. I remember thinking that. I remember hands everywhere and both of us humping hard against each other. I remember hearing the bedframe sqweeching something awful and if my mom had walked through the front door she would have had no doubt about what I was doing in my bedroom (though she probably would've been incredibly surprised about who with). We came hard, and hot and slippery, and managed to get it everywhere. I remember rolling off of Thomas, half laughing, feeling, well, feeling happier than I've ever felt in my life. I propped myself up on my elbow and looked at Thomas.

His trousers were ruined. Come soaked, and earlier when the zipper hadn't gone down far enough, it got torn. Kiss _that_ shitty suit good bye  I knew I was going to have to loan him something of mine to get him home. And, holy fuck, was he ever going to have one hell of a hickey. Funny, I don't remember going after his neck like a dog goes after rabbits, but I must have at some point. His eyes were all closed, but not squinchy, and he had his usual goofy grin, only it was the biggest, goofiest grin ever. I reached over and mussed his hair. (And no way was he going to re-braid it before going home. Over my dead body.)

His eyes opened. "Wow, Victor, why'd you do that?"

And despite the fact that I knew my life had just gotten a whole shitload more complicated, I smiled back.

I mean, really, how could I not?


End file.
